


a moon wrapped in brown paper

by seventhstar



Series: it promises light [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha Victor Nikiforov, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Regency, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Omega Katsuki Yuuri, POV Katsuki Yuuri, Premarital Sex, Regency Romance, Seducing Your Rich Friend In The Library While The Ball Is Ongoing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 23:21:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13041639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstar/pseuds/seventhstar
Summary: “Well,” Phichit said, when they were past the receiving line and cloistered in the retiring room. “You have been very sly, Yuuri. Nothing between you and Duke Nikiforov, eh?”“Phichit, there is nothing.” It is rude to not use Viktor’s title, but in Yuuri’s head he is always just Viktor.“He is very attentive to you.”“He is being kind.”





	a moon wrapped in brown paper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spookyfoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyfoot/gifts).
  * Inspired by [conjecture](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11513916) by [seventhstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstar/pseuds/seventhstar). 



> ah yes, it is I, garbage nuri come up from the depths with my trash offerings

“Well,” Phichit said, when they were past the receiving line and cloistered in the retiring room. “You have been very sly, Yuuri. Nothing between you and Duke Nikiforov, eh?”

“Phichit, there is nothing.” It is rude to not use Viktor’s title, but in Yuuri’s head he is always just Viktor.

“He is very attentive to you.”

“He is being kind.”

Yuuri blushes, and despises himself for it; it will only encourage Phichit’s teasing. The fact of the matter is, Viktor is kind, and noble. (Yuuri also suspects that he is a little bored and finds bringing Yuuri into society to be a diversion from his everyday pursuits.) His estate just neighbors their family inn, and so in light of this nearness, his family has treated Yuuri’s with much more than was due. He and Viktor have been friends since youth, despite the difference in their ages and the fact that Yuuri has been half in love with him for a long time.

Yuuri’s parents and his godmother combined could never afford to give him a London season, but Viktor’s aunt and uncle insisted this year on providing them some funds. He supposes they would like him to make a respectable match, so that he can remain Viktor’s friend without Viktor having to lower himself.

(Viktor needs a friend, someone to talk to about his troubles. Yuuri is happy enough to fill the role; making Viktor happy makes him happy too. Viktor is not himself since he returned; perhaps his aunt and uncle have seen these unguarded moments of depression as well and think the association with an innkeeper’s son is worth a lift in their only relative’s spirits.

He likes to know all Viktor’s secrets, to be close to him, to be useful to him.)

It has been an endless round of dinner parties and afternoon teas and morning calls, of evenings at the theatre and shopping trips. Yuuri has spent more money in the last two months than he has in his entire life prior on his appearance. Even so, he looks shabby and unrefined compared to Viktor’s set.

At least Yuuri’s gown for tonight’s ball, hosted by Viktor’s aunt Lady Lilia, is brand new—although it was delivered free of charge to Minako’s house, bearing the name of an exclusive French modiste, meaning that either Yuuri has an admirer or that Viktor felt that Yuuri required a new gown to appear in front of his aunt’s friends without embarrassing him.

 _He’s not wrong,_ Yuuri thinks as he checks his pomade-heavy hair in the mirror. The gown is fine muslin, with golden embroidery, the fabric so white it nearly glows. The neckline is so low that Yuuri’s nipples are almost visible (he dares not bend down). It was delivered with a petticoat and stockings, and new kid dancing pumps, and a lovely beaded reticule. Beneath, he is wearing the plain white shift he has worn for years, the one that he has been mending himself because a new one seemed like an extravagance. Finally, Minako gave him a collar to wear that was indecent—just a length of white ribbon tied in a large bow at the back of his neck. She assured him that they were all the rage currently and that it was tied securely, but Yuuri is still afraid that one tug will unravel the knot and leave his neck bare.

At home, Yuuri wears more masculine clothing, as most male omega who are not of the gentry do. But here in town, unwed maidens only wear gowns, regardless of how grotesque their figures look in them. At least Yuuri does not require stays. The delicate white dress only accents Yuuri’s ugly musculature. _Like a hog dressed in silk,_ Yuuri thinks, eying a stain on his spectacles, before Phichit taps his arm to gain his attention once more.

“Are you finished admiring yourself? The dancing will begin soon, and I would bet my mother’s life that Viktor will come ask you for the first set.”

“He already has,” Yuuri admits. “And the supper set.”

“You will be a duchess before the season is done.”

“You are being ridiculous. Viktor will never ask me to marry him.”

Yuuri has explained, repeatedly, that he and Viktor were childhood companions, that a teenaged Viktor more than once happened on a wandering Yuuri on the grounds of Viktor’s family park, that Viktor taught Yuuri mathematics, that there is nothing more than common friendship between them. Viktor only returned to the country two years ago, after a prolonged, five year trip to his homeland, and has been well-settled in town ever since. This season is the first they have met since his return, barring some illicit correspondence Viktor sent through Mari.

Phichit would attribute to that letter more significance than was warranted; Yuuri remembers that Viktor’s letters were so few during his travels that he was more than once rumored to have died. He cannot think that Viktor meant anything more than to reassure Yuuri and his family of his continued well-being, even if the enclosed note addressed to Yuuri was much more familiar than Yuuri expected it to be.

“Then he has no business making love to you, and I will give him a set down that will leave him crying.”

“Phichit.”

“Fine, fine. Let me enjoy this, Yuuri, I have never been invited to a private ball like this before.”

He and Phichit slip from the room just as a group of well-dressed omegas enter, their hair curled, their collars edged with tiny pearls. One of them Yuuri remembers from a dinner party; she made a long speech about the evils of the lower classes marrying above their sphere, giving Yuuri insinuating glances all the way. She seemed to have the idea that Yuuri was using his arts and allurements to coax Viktor into squiring him all over town, and her brother, an omega with the same fashionable figure and golden curls, gave Yuuri a baleful look when Yuuri was seated beside Viktor at dinner.

Yuuri cannot imagine what they think he has done to Viktor. No one could have fewer powers of seduction than he does. Half the time all Yuuri can do when Viktor compliments him is change the subject. Other omegas might engage in flirtation; mostly Yuuri and Viktor discuss the future of trade and geometry.

(Sometimes, apropos of nothing, Viktor will tell him some anecdote from his time away, very often in a matter of fact way that belies how horrible what he is describing is. Yuuri has no idea what to do, in these moments. He cannot think why he is Viktor’s confidante, but he endeavors to listen well and to reassure and distract him by turns.)

The dancers are lining up for the first set, and Viktor appears from somewhere at Yuuri’s elbow to escort him into place.

“Good evening,” he says. “I am so glad you have come.”

“It was kind of your aunt to invite me.”

“Kindness had nothing to do with it. I told her that she must, if she wished for me to have any enjoyment at all.”

“Then I will endeavor to entertain you,” Yuuri says. He straightens; if his manners are not fashionable, his posture is perfect, and he can dance. “You look well, sir.”

Viktor’s clothes are cut closely; he is built on a larger scale than Yuuri is, although he is not much taller.

“I should hope so. Otherwise we will be ill-matched. You look very beautiful, as always.”

The music begins. Yuuri knows the steps well, for he and Minako both like to practice; Viktor is light on his feet. They move in perfect synchrony, Viktor’s fingers warm on Yuuri’s even through their gloves. It is difficult to make prolonged conversation while dancing, but they manage a little; mindless talk, of the size of the room and of the number of couples, of the white soup that will be served at supper and the dessert that will follow.

Such conversation normally makes Yuuri anxious. While he can be comfortable in the company of his family and friends, at home, here in town he feels the weight of their expectations heavily. The way the fashionable people here speak is layered, full of insinuations and veiled insults, which Yuuri cannot alway grasp. But with Viktor he finds it easier to express himself. Viktor never makes him feel inadequate. (He never makes Yuuri feel intentionally inadequate.)

The room is hot and crowded, and even though Yuuri’s gown is nearly sheer, he is sweating by the end of the set. Viktor leads him off and vanishes with the promise of refreshment; Yuuri is asked, while waiting, to dance by a lady alpha. He does not want to, but as he has promised Viktor another set he must.

She is not as good a dancer as Viktor, and upon determining that Yuuri has no money and no title, abandons him as soon as the set has ended. Viktor, a pretty young man on his arm, reappears with two glasses of negus; he gives one to Yuuri, and Yuuri drinks it merely to have something to do with his hands. Introductions are made. Yuuri doesn’t trouble himself to remember the omega’s name.

“Are you engaged for the next? Shall I find you a partner?”

“No…”

“Is it too warm?”

“I’m sure Mr. Katsuki is fine,” Viktor’s companion says. He pronounces Yuuri’s name incorrectly.

“Perhaps _Mr. Katsuki_ would like to see the balcony. If you will excuse me.”

Viktor detaches himself from his previous partner and catches Yuuri’s arm; somehow, he navigates through the crowd in minutes, and they are by the wall, where it is dimmer, and there are fewer people. There is a heavy velvet curtain hanging there; Viktor feels behind it, turning an unseen knob, and then yanks Yuuri behind it while the next set begins.

The curtain must have covered the entrance onto the balcony; outside the air is much cooler, and the full moon paints everything silver. Viktor’s hair practically glows; he must have had it cut recently, for the line of his hairline on the back of his neck is as straight as a board.

Without thinking, Yuuri reaches out to touch it; his fingertips brush Viktor’s nape before he realizes just what he Is doing.

“Yuuri?”

“Your hair…” Yuuri fumbles for words. “It’s thinning.”

Viktor stares at him. Then he collapses, dramatically, onto the stone floor of the balcony.

“You have slain me,” he intones.

““I’m sorry!”

“You ought to fence, with your sharp tongue.” To Yuuri’s surprise, Viktor, still on the ground, laughs. “I miss it being long.”

“Really?”

“My valet was always scandalized; he always said that he was not a hairdresser.”

“What happened to it?” Yuuri recalls that it was still lengthy when Viktor boarded the carriage that would take him to his ship.

Viktor’s laughter stops, and the smile vanishes from his face as quickly as an oncoming storm blocked out the sun.

“…there was a fire.”

“Were you hurt?”

“Let us not speak of it.”

“…as you wish.”

The fire occurred when Viktor was in Russia, then. What else occurred there, Yuuri does not know. What he has pieced together from these disconnected interludes, these glimpses into Viktor’s troubles, is confused at best.

He knows only that it is a source of gossip among the ton, that Viktor returned with his relatons all deceased and himself in the possession of a Dukedom and various other honors and riches, and that since then Viktor has made a good name for himself. Yuuri attended Viktor’s parents’ funeral, despite it being improper, solely so that he could add a description of it to a letter he had his father sign and send abroad.

He knows only that when Viktor speaks of these things his eyes grow haunted.

Yuuri has started to ask and then stopped himself from asking Viktor the truth of the matter more times than he can count. He does not have the courage.

(He does not want to bring that expression to Viktor’s eyes—not ever.)

“Are you enjoying the ball?”

“Yes,” Yuuri replies, without thinking.

“Truly?”

“I…it is very different.”

“Ah, so you dislike it.”

“I like that no one pays any attention to me,” Yuuri says. “But I dislike being dismissed merely because I haven’t any money.”

“It is a pity that most of my peers are blind to your charms,” Viktor agrees. “Well, it is a pity for them. I rather enjoy having you all to myself.”

There is no response to that Yuuri can make, not without giving away how intense his longing for Viktor has become. He looks away, up at the stars, and sighs. There was a book on astronomy he glimpsed at the bookstore; he could not afford it. Minako does not have texts on the subject. Viktor would lend them to him, but Yuuri has his pride.

“What are you thinking of?”

“Books,” Yuuri says.

“This balcony goes around the house—we can enter the library from here, if you wish.” Viktor offers him his arm.

Yuuri takes it, and is aware of how much muscle there is underneath the sleeve of his coat as he hangs on. At the end of the balcony there is a door, and Viktor produces a key from his pocket and unlocks it. The library is dim compared to the moonlit outdoors. Yuuri stands aimlessly, waiting for his eyes to adjust, while Viktor picks up an unlit candle and goes to the banked fire to light it.

The library is vast, shelves rising from the carpet to the ceiling, every square inch filled with books. Yuuri’s eyes widen. He could have done without the etiquette lessons, the drilling on how to address a peer, the countless calls that had to be paid, the dresses, the desperate clawing to enter a society that gave him so little pleasure. But winter after winter, Yuuri returned to Minako for his education, because she had books and was willing to share them.

What little of the world Yuuri has seen cannot compare to Viktor’s breadth of experience, but at least when it comes to mathematics Yuuri can hold his own.

“It is marvelous,” he says softly.

Viktor’s face lights up as if the sun has come out directly overheard. “Is it not? It is my favorite part of my inheritance.”

“And yet you spend your evenings going to card parties.”

“I dislike reading alone.”

“You dislike doing anything alone.” For a moment Yuuri thinks he has been too bold, but Viktor does not seem offended. He gestures for Yuuri to sit on a chaise near the candle, and then joins him there. There is an appropriate width of space between them; it only reminds Yuuri that he and Viktor ought not to be alone in here.

 _But where is the harm,_ he asks himself. _Viktor has no designs on me._

A strand of Yuuri’s hair has come loose despite the pomade, and fallen down into his eyes. Yuuri wrinkles his nose, his spectacles slipping down, and reaches up to put it back into place. Viktor’s hand is there before he can; the strand of hair is smoothed over his head, Viktor’s hand slides lightly down Yuuri’s face.

“Did you finish Gauss’s latest?”

“Not yet. But it is very interesting.”

“I have had word of a Russian mathematician, a man named Bolyai, who is exploring Euclidean geometry. I shall send you the text when I receive it.”

“Really?”

“Of course. Otherwise, who will I discuss it with?” Viktor winks at him.

“It is a pity that we are not allowed to write to each other,” Yuuri says. “Well. Perhaps you can write to me after I return home…no one will care if I receive letters from an unmarried alpha then.”

“Perhaps you ought to marry.”

“So that you can write to me about mathematics?”

“Is that not a good reason to marry?”

“You know that it is not. If I am not engaged by spring—” Yuuri stops himself before he can admit too much. He does not care so much about being indelicate in front of Viktor—certainly Viktor has said more than one shocking thing to him—but he does, selfishly, wish to maintain the illusion that Viktor might court him. Sometimes, Viktor is so solicitous that Yuuri can even fool himself.

“…if you are not engaged?”

“Well…in Hasetsu…” Yuuri bites his lip. He has to force himself to release his skirts, which are crumpled in his fists. “The Nishigoris are both alphas. And they need…”

“Ah, you have an understanding with them.” Viktor sounds flat, unaffected, in a way that must make some deeper feeling. Yuuri wonders if he is disgusted; such arrangements are not uncommon, but well bred, rich omegas almost always make exclusive matches rather than becoming a third. Rich alpha pairs generally marry country omegas with no money, or rich tradesmen’s children who lack proper connections.

“No, nothing has been said, but…I am a burden on my family, I think. This season in town has cost them money and they have nothing to show for it. And my friends are kind.”

“Is that all you desire in a marriage? Kindness?”

“What else is there? Not everyone can have someone fall in love with them.”

“So you would take a rich alpha, if they offered for you?”

“No rich alpha is ever going to offer for me.”

Yuuri regrets the words as soon as he says them, even as his ire is raised by Viktor pressing him. He cannot make out what Viktor is about; why does he care if Yuuri marries? Indeed, it would be to his benefit. Then they could write to each other. They are not children anymore, to be friends without a care for society; a marriage would give them license to continue being friends without shame. “That is…I mean no offense. You are not like…but most alphas of means would want a dowry or connections, and I have neither.”

“I think you underestimate your own charms, my dear,” Viktor says. “I have faith you will ensnare any number of hearts before the season is over.”

Yuuri would consider himself blessed beyond belief to ensnare just one. But that he cannot say, for fear of forcing his friend to say what could only cause them both pain. He shifts on the chaise; the library, despite the fire, is cold. He wishes he had his wrap, or his spencer, or had convinced Minako to let him wear a chemisette. Instead he slides his hands underneath his thighs for warmth.

“Ah, you are cold—here.” Viktor strips off his coat, and Yuuri has only a moment to begin his protest before it is being draped over his shoulders. The superfine is warm, from where it clung to Viktor’s body, like the shadow of an embrace.

“Sir,” Yuuri says. He means it to chastise, but it comes out softened. “If we are caught here…”

“We will not be missed in this crush.”

 _“I_ will not be missed. Will your aunt not wonder where you are?”

“My aunt is accustomed to my eccentricities.”

“Do you not wish to dance?” Yuuri asks. Viktor loves to dance, he knows. He always asks Yuuri, after all.

“You will not dance a third set with me, and there is more than an hour before the supper set still. Do you wish to be rid of me, Yuuri?”

“You—” _should not use my name,_ Yuuri ought to say. He ought to have said something before, when Viktor called him _my dear_ so naturally that Yuuri has only now realized it. Viktor can mean nothing by it, but the implication of scandal would destroy Yuuri’s already meager prospects. If he were wise, he would leave now. Return to the ball. Dance with whoever asks him. Go home and accept his fate as the third in the Nishigori’s marriage.

Instead, what Yuuri says in a rush of foolishness is, “I would rather sit here and talk with you than dance with anyone. I even finished your treatise on variables so that, at supper, we could—”

“I only gave it to you yesterday!”

“I stayed up all night reading it, I nearly set fire to my bedclothes when I overturned the candle.”

“Yuuri—”

“Vikt—” Yuuri does not have the chance to finish his entirely improper use of Viktor’s first name.

His mouth is occupied by Viktor giving him a passionate and entirely improper kiss.

No one has ever kissed Yuuri before, except in dreams, and the reality is entirely wonderful: Viktor’s mouth over his own is shockingly warm, his arm around Yuuri’s waist tight, the press of his chest against Yuuri’s firm. Viktor hauls him across the chaise and into his lap. Yuuri seizes Viktor’s fine hair and reciprocates with equal intensity, if not equal skill.

He is thoroughly engrossed in Viktor’s lips when Viktor slides a finger under his collar, right over the scent gland on the side of Yuuri’s throat. Yuuri whimpers, a sound more animal than human, and shoves at Viktor’s chest. As he is seated on Viktor’s knees, all he does is nearly throw himself off his lap and onto the ground.

Viktor catches him before he can fall.

“We shouldn’t,” Yuuri says.

“Of course,” Viktor says, in a way that suggests he thinks nothing of the kind. He drops his hand from Yuuri’s throat; it does nothing to alleviate the pleasurable burn of his touch.

Yuuri takes a deep breath; he searches for serenity, finds none. His heart is pounding. “Did you plan this, Viktor?”

“No.” Viktor must see the disbelief in Yuuri’s face, for he takes Yuuri’s hands in his own. “I swear it.”

“But you kissed me.”

“I was overcome by a sudden passion.”

“…for _me?”_

“Yes.”

“Not the geometry?”

“Is it so hard to believe?”

“Yes!”

“Well, it is true. I want you.”

Yuuri has imagined Viktor saying any number of impossible things to him. Declarations of sentiment, accusations of manipulation, gentle rejections of Yuuri’s obvious affection for him. He has fantasized about Viktor making his feelings known to Yuuri more often than he has drawn breath. And yet, Viktor’s words undo him.

He could dream of being loved but not of being desired.

It is not exactly what Yuuri wanted. But it is more reasonable, more probable, more believable. An alpha of Viktor’s caliber could never settle for someone of Yuuri’s ilk for a husband. But for a momentary passion, even Yuuri in all his nonexistent glory will suffice.

“I should return you to your friends,” Viktor says. “Before you are missed. I would not wish to harm your prospects,” he smiles, and Yuuri does not understand the joke, “and they might be, if we were caught here.”

“Does the door to this library lock?”

Viktor chokes. His cheeks and ears turn red; he looks away and than back at Yuuri without managing a word.

“It locks.”

“Well?” Yuuri asks, with more courage than he feels. “You are the one with the keys, sir.”

“Don’t call me sir,” Viktor says hoarsely. He deposits Yuuri on the chaise and goes.

Yuuri hears the key turn as Viktor locks the door they came through, then two others; other entrances, Yuuri thinks, from the rest of the house. He does not know the layout; as Viktor is a bachelor with no one to act as host, Yuuri has never been invited to his home. Perhaps that is why the ball is being held here, even though Lady Lilia’s townhouse would have sufficed.

Viktor returns. His cravat has been loosened, and all thoughts of the suitability of Lady Lilia’s ballroom cease. Yuuri licks his lips, all afire inside at the thought of Viktor’s bare throat, just visible as his cravat slips down.

They are seated side by side on the chaise again; the distance between is sufficient for propriety, but with the impression of Viktor’s hold still his his mind Yuuri cannot abide it. Yuuri’s skirts are in disarray, hitched up high enough that his ankles and one calf are visible. He has lost his slippers. It seems pointless to straighten his gown now—if Viktor is to have him, it will only be mussed again—so he folds his hands in his lap to keep from fidgeting.

“You have well-turned ankles.” Viktor holds out his arms, and Yuuri rushes into them.

Their bodies plastered together, Viktor gives him another kiss, and then another, and then another, each less chaste than the last, until their mouths are open and Viktor’s hands are sliding down Yuuri’s sides to encircle his waist, to tug down his bodice, to pinch at his erect nipples through the thin fabric. Yuuri’s skin prickles in the cold, and Viktor’s touch is like a balm; he’s lost his gloves somewhere, and he fondles Yuuri with strong, bare fingers.

Yuuri wrenches open Viktor’s shirt, his cravat falling to the floor, and cups the side of Viktor’s neck with his palm. The slightest pressure elicits a groan from Viktor, a sound of pleasure Yuuri never knew he wanted until he heard it. Viktor’s neck is flushed, all the proof of his wanting there for Yuuri to see.

It is deeply unfair that Yuuri has grown up to look like a farmhand and Viktor has turned out rather like a painting of the god of love done by the masters.

“Darling,” Viktor says, as he undoes the buttons down the back of Yuuri’s dress. It slides down his arms, around his elbows, revealing the chemise that is so worn it is nearly transparent. Viktor takes off both of Yuuri’s gloves, right then left.

The knot on the back of Yuuri’s collar comes untied easily under Viktor’s fingers—Yuuri thinks, dimly, that Minako was entirely wrong about the secureness of the knot—and then Viktor hoists him close and drags his teeth lightly over Yuuri’s throat, over his scent gland, until Yuuri finds himself pulling Viktor’s hair, hard.

“Viktor—Viktor—”

Every inch of Yuuri’s skin feels new again under Viktor’s searching hands; his chemise ends up above his hips, crumpled about his collarbones as Viktor runs one palm down his chest and over his stomach. He works open the buttons holding Viktor’s shirt closed, just to feel the violent pulse of Viktor’s heart.

Yuuri has spent his formative years in a hot springs inn, where there were ample opportunities to spy on alphas in the nude, where he has more than once glimpsed a couple too lost in the throes of passion to catch a voyeur, where no one has ever tried to nurture in him any delicate sensibilities. And yet, as wetness pools between his thighs, as hot pleasure boils up low in his belly, he connects for the first time the crude couplings he’s heard joked about with the wild pleasure Yuuri sometimes experiences at night, touching himself beneath the counterpane, shameless as can be.

He wishes he could peel away every layer of Viktor’s clothing, but that would require them to detach themselves, and that Yuuri could never bear.

Viktor undoes one of Yuuri’s garters and drags his stocking a few inches down his thigh.

Yuuri shivers, but makes no attempt to dissuade him; wet as Yuuri is becoming, if he doesn’t remove them, he might ruin them. The stockings are fine silk, and they slide over his skin like water, until they’re down around his ankles. No one has touched Yuuri’s bare legs since he was a child who needed to be bathed. Before this very moment, he would not have described himself as affectionate.

But with Viktor’s fingers curled about his calf, Yuuri finds in himself a wellspring of desire, and he ducks his head to set his mouth against Viktor’s neck. And over his collarbone, and then lower still into the slice of Viktor’s chest that is bare—he has a scar, rough under Yuuri’s tongue—

“Oh, Yuuri,” Viktor says. One hand is wrapped around Yuuri’s bare ankle—his stockings have made their way to the floor—the other is pressed into the small of Yuuri’s back, between his shoulders. Yuuri is very dimly aware of how creased his chemise will be, after Viktor has tumbled him. His dress will never lay flat.

“Don’t tear my chemise,” he says between laying kisses over what skin he can reach. It is criminal of Viktor to wear so many layers of fabric after buying Yuuri a gown so sheer it required strategically arranged undergarments to preserve Yuuri’s modesty. “Please. It’s the only one I have.”

“Why do you only have one?”

“I could afford a chemise or dresses,” Yuuri replies. “And no one can see my chemise.”

“I shall take special care, then,” Viktor murmurs, and then he shifts Yuuri on his lap and takes the chemise off of him. It is over Yuuri’s head before he knows it, and then he is sitting almost entirely naked in Viktor’s lap as Viktor folds his chemise and puts it on the chaise beside them. “Perhaps you ought to remove the rest of your clothing. I should not wish to ruin any of it.”

“All right.”

Viktor’s eyes widen; perhaps he expected Yuuri to refuse, or to play coy. Yuuri has no desire to waste a moment of this evening on refusing Viktor liberties. He is already halfway there; it would be foolish to flee now.

His dress is down around his waist; with some effort and Viktor’s assistance, it too is discarded. The air of the library is cold; his nipples tight, his skin prickles, the warmth of Viktor’s body grows ever more desirable. Yuuri lets himself be gathered into Viktor’s hold, thighs on either side of his waist; he lets their foreheads touch, Viktor’s fringe caught between them; he lets Viktor caress him and muffle Yuuri’s sighs of pleasure with his mouth.

Before long he is not cold anymore at all.

He squirms in Viktor’s lap, close enough that he can feel Viktor’s arousal underneath him, barely aware of the fact that his wetness must be soaked into Viktor’s pantaloons.

“Lie down,” Viktor says.

Yuuri finds himself on his back on the chaise, legs dangling over the end. His toes brush the bare carpet. The chaise is not as comfortable as Viktor’s embrace, and Yuuri opens his mouth to protest.

Viktor is on his knees at the foot of the chaise, between Yuuri’s spread thighs.

The protests die in Yuuri’s throat.

And then, Viktor’s hair brushes over Yuuri’s skin, and Viktor licks him, one long stripe up the center of his dripping sex. The touch of his tongue is the most impossibly intimate thing Yuuri has ever experienced; he arches up, moans as Viktor gently opens his legs wider, gives up any hope of thinking.

An eternity passes, or a few seconds, Yuuri has no way of knowing which; Viktor’s mouth toys with him. His tongue, his lips, his breath, sucking and licking and entering Yuuri, as if Viktor means to devour him. Viktor grips him by the thighs as he goes. It is an endless and ever-changing stimulation, pleasure upon pleasure upon pleasure, until Yuuri gasps like he’s drowning, fingers clamped over his lips as if to force his wanton scream of release back in. He comes apart, trembling, until finally Viktor lifts his head and turns it to leave languorous kisses up and down Yuuri’s thigh.

“Yuuri?”

“I feel like I might melt away.”

To think that Viktor could make him feel this way, Yuuri thinks. To think Viktor might have made others feel this particular pleasure. To think that Viktor might take some well-bred omega from a good family and a large dowry to his bed, every night, while Yuuri returned to Hasetsu with only the ephemeral memories. Would he talk mathematics with them instead?

Would he tell them all his secrets?

“You’re shaking. Are you cold?”

“No.” But sweat is cooling on Yuuri’s body, and now that Viktor is no longer distracting him, he can feel the chill.

“Here.” Viktor retrieves his coat and throws it over him, before kneeling down by Yuuri’s head on the carpet. His expression is earnest, like a puppy trying to please, and Yuuri cannot resist petting his soft hair and drinking up Viktor’s tender expression.

“Should I not…” Yuuri does not know how to phrase it delicately. “Do you not want to tumble me?”

Viktor, incredibly, blushes.

“Before marriage?”

Yuuko and Takeshi will never need hear of it. Minako and his parents can remain ignorant. It is a shameful deception on his part, but Yuuri has been so good. He has put all away all his feelings for Viktor. He has never once spoken of all his fervent and secret hopes.

Surely he can have this, one evening where Viktor is at his disposal.

An image comes into his head; an evening, in a future that will never come to pass. A fire burning low as Yuuri removes his wedding gown and dresses instead in a frothy nightgown only for married omegas. A bed—Viktor’s bed, Yuuri decides, the sheets heavy with Viktor’s scent—made up for them, and Yuuri sprawled across it. A ring on his finger, one from Viktor’s family jewels, something to equalize them. And Viktor—

Viktor, atop him, his lips at Yuuri’s throat to mark him, his body between Yuuri’s legs, a slow and steady consummation of a wedding that can never be. But Yuuri cannot make himself stop wanting it, and here Viktor is, and if he would only take Yuuri, Yuuri could cling to him and pretend.

“No one will ever know,” Yuuri whispers. “Only you and I.”

“Our secret.”

The crackle of the fire is the only sound. Yuuri holds his breath.

Finally, Viktor reaches out, dislodges the coat draped over Yuuri, and runs the inside of his wrist down Yuuri’s chest and stomach, scenting him. As if Yuuri belongs to him.

 “Please.”

“I suppose it does not matter,” Viktor says. Yuuri wonders what justifications Viktor has made to himself, to allow this liaison between them. There have been rumors, but Yuuri has always believed Viktor to have restrained himself from the licentious behavior usual to rich and single alphas.

Viktor’s shadow falls over Yuuri’s body as he rises, and unbuttons the fall over his pantaloons, and shrugs out of his waistcoat. He does not undress any further. Yuuri opens his mouth, and then closes it; he can see Viktor’s sex and is entirely distracted from the inequality in their dishabille.

It is…Yuuri has seen an erect cock before, but the sight of one has never made him hungry.

Viktor gets on top of him, and Yuuri parts his legs, widely, with more flexibility than he suspects well-bred omegas are supposed to have. Viktor’s gaze drifts lower, to the wet mess of black curls between Yuuri’s thighs. He licks his lips, as if recalling the taste. Then he brushes his fingers over Yuuri’s sex, lightly, again and again, until the heat starts to pool in Yuuri’s belly again.

He tenses as Viktor penetrates him with a finger—Yuuri has heard too many horror stories of the agony maidens experience upon the surrender of their virtue—but there is no discomfort at all. It is not unpleasant.

“How many others have you had?”

“You wish to discuss this now?” Viktor splutters, and the motion of his hands ceases; Yuuri lifts his hips until he resumes it. A second finger enters him, and the sensation progresses from merely tolerable to pleasurable.

Yuuri would bear it even if it was uncomfortable, merely to have Viktor touch him so intimately, but he Is unsurprised to find himself enjoying it. Viktor would never deliberately do him harm.

“Yes. Ho—How many—”

Viktor’s thumb presses down over the bud at the top of his sex, and Yuuri cannot get the rest of his sentence out as Viktor traces small circles over him there. He quite forgets that he has said anything at all, as Viktor’s callouses catch at his skin, and when Viktor finally responds he is barely able to comprehend him.

“Three.”

A crook of Viktor’s fingers inside him sends waves of pleasure everything through Yuuri’s body, as If he has been struck by lightning and the sparks have remained in his blood. Yuuri’s whole body moves, in an attempt to make Viktor repeat the action, in an attempt to draw his hand further inside himself.

“All widows,” Viktor continues, “and none of them could hold a candle to you, my darling, so do not make yourself uneasy over them.”

It is too late; this reminder of the difference between their stations cuts.

Viktor withdraws his hand, but he is atop Yuuri before Yuuri can protest, and indeed Yuuri prefers this: Viktor’s weight makes him more real, the brush of Viktor’s clothing against Yuuri’s bare skin makes Yuuri feel powerful, Viktor’s lips upon his bare throat only add fuel to the fire of Yuuri’s fantasies. He imagines it again, the bedchamber and the ring and the future he has so long desired, with his hands on Viktor’s broad back where the shirt has stuck to him with sweat.

“I want to dance with you tonight,” Viktor says, between lavishing Yuuri’s neck with affection.

“Dance with me now,” Yuuri replies; he is wild to have Viktor inside him. He arches off the chaise, and he is strong enough to lift Viktor’s body with his own.

Their bodies lock together, and Viktor fits his hips against Yuuri’s own. Yuuri feels him press against his sex, throbbing; _I will ruin this chaise, I am so wet,_ he thinks, and is vaguely glad to have removed all his clothing before making such a mess of himself. He closes his eyes.

A second’s pain, a muffled gasp from his mouth, Viktor’s hasty apology against his lips, Yuuri’s incoherent response to urge him on—

And then Viktor has him, is doing to Yuuri what hot tea does to sugar, is as close to Yuuri as he will ever be. Yuuri holds to him, reveling in the connection between them. Viktor is whispering in his native tongue; Yuuri understands nothing but the endearments.

That is not enough, to satisfy all his unrequited love, but still it is everything.

He presses the inside of his wrist against the back of Viktor’s neck. _My Viktor,_ he thinks, and he forgets everything, body afire, heart galloping, Viktor’s desperate conquering of his body all he knows. Slick drips down his legs, over the scent glands inside his thighs. Viktor fills him like Yuuri was made for him. One of his hands slips between their bodies as the other seizes Yuuri’s hand, and thumbs at Yuuri’s sex between thrusts.

Yuuri falls over the edge, too overcome for anything more than a boneless cry and a complete collapse. He bears down, and Viktor finishes inside him, face red, panting. He looks undignified, and pleased, and he squeezes Yuuri’s fingers tightly in his own, as if to comfort him.

“Have I hurt you?” he asks. “Yuuri? You’re crying…”

Somehow, in his haze of pleasure and exhaustion, this is more than Yuuri can bear. That Viktor should be concerned for him, when Yuuri has done nothing more than use him all evening, merely because this brief tiff is all they can have, is more consideration than Yuuri deserves.

“I am well,” he says, lying. He has perfected this high society skill well enough.

“Rest a moment, then.” Viktor produces his watch. “We have time yet before supper.”

Yuuri cannot imagine showing his face in a ballroom now, when he is certain an entire contingent of maids could not return him to anything resembling decency. But Viktor’s eyes are bright, and Yuuri has it on good authority that the last set will be a waltz. Yuuri does not have permission to waltz.

But of all his sins tonight, an improper dance will be the least of them. Tomorrow he will take the post home, and no one will ever waltz with him again.

He must steal every moment with Viktor that he can.

“Let me refresh myself, then,” Yuuri says. “Go show your face in the ballroom. I’ll tell anyone who asks I was overcome by the heat and had to step out to compose myself.”

Viktor kisses his forehead.

There are dents beneath his eyes that he did not have in his youth. Yuuri does not think he sleeps well; he wishes he could draw Viktor back down, and tell him that if he slept, Yuuri would watch over him.

“As you wish,” he says, all tenderness, and he brings Yuuri a blanket and builds up the fire before he goes.

By the light of the lone candle, now nearly burnt down, Yuuri dresses himself in his now-tousled finery. He smooths the skirts as best he can, bemoans that proper omegas are forbidden drawers beneath their dresses, and pauses only to stroke his still intact chemise. He pulls on each stocking before finally retrieving his slippers from beneath the couch.

There is a mirror in the library, mounted above the fireplace. Yuuri stares at his own reflection for too long, wondering what it is about Viktor that always leads Yuuri to madness, and then finds his way past the shelves to the door.

Viktor has left it unlocked behind him. Yuuri prepares himself for a number of rude questions regarding his whereabouts. Then he steps into the hall and lets the door fall shut behind with a thump that has the ring of finality.

The rest of the evening passed dreamlike, and in Yuuri’s memories much of it is unclear. The titters of the other guests behind their gloves and fans, Phichit’s sharp and sarcastic raise of his brows when he saw Yuuri on his return, the carriage ride home to Minako’s home where he was ushered to bed by her lone servant, a highly scandalized old maid, none of them are preserved well in his mind. All that Yuuri has cared to remember are the minutes he spent in Viktor’s arms, waltzing about the ballroom as they shared a secret scandal, and their vigorous and uncivil discussion of Viktor’s treatise on his theories of hyperbolic geometry they held over supper without speaking a word to anyone else, and finally Viktor’s inexplicable words as he handed Yuuri up into his carriage.

“Tomorrow will not suit, as you will be tired,” Viktor said. “But the morning after?”

“What of it?”

“May I call on you?”

Viktor called on Yuuri nearly everyday. Yuuri could not imagine why he would think Yuuri would refuse to see him, unless he thought their amorous congress had made Yuuri regret their friendship.

Yuuri had no plans to remain in town long enough for a call in two days, but Viktor was looking at him hopefully, and Yuuri did not wish to disappoint him. He could leave that afternoon, could he not? He could say his farewells to Viktor first, to impress upon him his importance in Yuuri’s life.

“Of course.”

Viktor beamed at him, and then closed the carriage door. The next thing Yuuri truly remembers is waking up in the afternoon to find Minako in a frenzy downstairs, pacing up and down the the parlor, arguing with her servant.

“You are mistaken,” she is saying as Yuuri enters, a roll in hand for his breakfast. “Such a thing is impossible. You have misheard.”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I heard it right clear. They were gone three or four sets, and he came back with a green dress, if you understand what I mean—”

“I do understand, and these insinuations are—Yuuri! For god’s sake, my boy, tell me why you were gone half the ball? There is some on dit about that you and Duke Nikiforov were…”

She does not bother to finish; she knows Yuuri well, being his godmother since he was born, and she sees the guilt in his face.

“No. You did not.” Minako flaps a hand at her maid, who bustles out with a dissatisfied expression. “Yuuri. Tell me that you didn’t allow Duke Nikiforov to seduce you.”

“I did not.” That is true.

“I know you are very fond of him.”

“He is my friend.”

“If he were your friend he would not spend so much time paying you addresses and keeping you away from eligible gentleman. But that cannot matter now, not if this story has spread through town already.”

“I should leave…”

“Then it is true!”

“He did not seduce me. He only…kissed me.”

He only made Yuuri feel every pure sentiment in the world.

“They say you came back to the ball looking as if you’d been dragged behind a horse on your way there.”

“He did not impose himself upon me.”

“But he did take a liberty or twenty.”

“I wanted him to.”

“Oh, Yuuri.” The anger drains from Minako’s face, replaced by a kind of wretched pity Yuuri does not want. “You must know nothing can come of it.”

“I know!” The hot tears that pour down his cheeks are more humiliating than any hinted comment at last night’s madness. “I only wanted to know what it would have—”

He cannot finish, nor does he need to. Minako looks at him knowingly, and then sighs.

“Well, if you hope to salvage anything, you must remain in town for a while longer. Be seen, and see if people cut you. Protest your innocence.”

“Why?”

“Because if you wish to avoid remaining in Hasetsu for the rest of your life, you must marry outside your limited circle, and that means you must catch someone here. And none of them will have you if they think you have given yourself away.”

Her harsh words are more comforting than her pity. He nods, once, to show he understands, and then starts to retreat.

“Stay in for the rest of the day; we will make calls tomorrow.”

“All right.”

Yuuri spends the rest of the day dancing with an invisible partner around the dining table and rereading Viktor’s treatise. Before bed, he practices his explanations to an invisible partner, and hopes he will be able to play the part of an unfairly maligned nobody successfully. (He is a nobody, but the accusations laid at his door are close enough to the truth.)

He thinks, before he retires, that at least tomorrow Viktor will come.

But Viktor does not.

He and Minako do not finish their morning calls, for the first three drawing rooms they try are closed to them, despite giggling come from behind the servants that insist their masters are not in. They are given the cut direct in the street twice, and a merchant who has known Minako for ten years will not sell to her.

And so Yuuri is at home and available half the morning, and yet he remains alone.

Viktor does not come the day after that, or the day after that, and rumors come that he has left town to avoid Yuuri; Yuuri does not want to believe such a thing could be true. A week passes; Yuuri’s name is in the society pages, and the discussion of him is not complimentary. One of Minako’s friends does call on her, but she pointedly ignores Yuuri and makes a long speech about the taint of innkeeper’s omega sons and how grasping they are, and how stupid they are to think that their dubious charms could ensnare a Duke, one of the richest men in the country.

“I have faith you will ensnare any number of hearts before the season is over.”

Had Viktor lied to him? Does he have so little care for Yuuri’s reputation, that he could not trouble himself to defend it? It would cost him nothing to make a denial in the right ears. And yet he has not, and Yuuri’s own attempts are futile. The harm to himself he might endure, but to ruin Minako’s comfortable life, to risk the scandal spreading among his friends at home, to harm his family and their business—Yuuri cannot bear any of that.

“I should go,” he says again to Minako after the torutous call.

This time she does not protest, only orders the maid to pack Yuuri’s things and buy him a ticket for the post to leave tomorrow. And as she leaves the room to fetch the money, she lays a hand on his shoulder.

“For what it is worth,” she says, “I comprehend you perfectly. And if he had any sense he would have seen your worth long ago. I am only sorry he has turned out to be such a fair weather friend.”

“He’s not,” Yuuri says, more out of reflex than any real belief. Whatever Viktor’s reasons are, he has hurt Yuuri in the worst way.

She shakes her head, but she squeezes his shoulder solemnly before quitting the room.

The maid has not packed Yuuri’s things, when he goes upstairs to ensure none of his possessions have remained behind. Yuuri does it himself, finding some comfort in having a task to attend to, and then he cleans the room himself, as well, merely to prolong the period in which he does not have to think.

In the end, he does not burn the one letter Viktor wrote him or the treatise in Viktor’s fine hand or the handkerchief he lent Yuuri ten years ago that Yuuri conveniently never returned. He puts them all between the pages of one of his few books, buries the volume beneath his clothes, and slams the trunk shut.

Then he falls asleep, and in his exhaustion, does not dream at all.

Morning comes cruel and sunny.

Yuuri goes through his ablutions in a state of nothingness; Minako helps him carry the trunk downstairs. He has changed back into his traveling clothes, trousers and shirt and hat, with a scarf over his face to conceal him. His hair goes uncombed. The post station is a bit of a walk, but Yuuri refuses the offer of a hackney, and as Minako has no carriage anymore, as the one lent to her by Lady Lilia is no longer available, she has no choice but to make her farewells in the parlor before he takes his leave.

“Write to me when you are home.”

“Yes, Aunt Minako.”

“If the Nishigoris are unkind to you, you must tell me and I will set them straight. They were hardly prim and proper themselves before they were married, I assure you.”

“Y-yes.”

“Don’t think of him,” she begins, urgently, and at that very moment there is a knock at the front door.

It is not a large house; sound carries well. Yuuri can hear the grumbling of the maid as she goes to the door, complaining of callers coming unfashionable early with no care for Minako’s nerves, and then he hears distinctly her choke of surprise when the door is opened.

“Your grace!”

“Is Yuu—is Mr. Katsuki home?”

“No,” Yuuri says frantically.

“Yes!” Minako calls through the parlor door. “Let him in, Ferguson!”

And then, unbelievably, she leaves, so that Yuuri is standing alone in the room when Viktor bursts in. Yuuri has his back to the door, to help him keep his composure, and so he only hears Viktor’s distress as he speaks.

“Yuuri,” he says. “Forgive me—”

“There is no need.”

“I assure you, I never meant to trifle with you—”

“I understand.”

“No, you must allow me to—”

“I will miss my post if you detain me.”

“Your post? Where are you going?”

“Did I not tell you I was to marry the Nishigoris?”

“Yes, but—you were serious?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“But—you—I—I have come to offer you my—”

Yuuri whirls around to cut him off, to explain that he would die before he accepted Viktor’s charity, that he has no desire for Viktor to do anything but go now that Yuuri has heard his frankly pathetic apology, to tell him to go to hell, to beg him not to toy with Yuuri this way—and says none of those things, for when he lays eyes on Viktor, he sees that Viktor is dressed in dusty clothing, that his sleeve is torn, that he is wearing a pistol at his hip, and that there is blood on his half-tied cravat from a still-oozing wound.

“You are hurt!”

“Yes, that is why I was away, I was set upon by men who wished to kill me, but that is not—”

“You were what?”

“Yuuri, please, will you marr—”

“Viktor Nikiforov!” Lilia Baranovskaya, Viktor’s aunt, the formidable wife of fellow alpha and equal intimidating Yakov Feltsman, storms into the room. “What are you doing?”

“I—”

“You were raised better than this!”

“Aunt Lilia—”

“Raised better? I should hope so!” Minako flies into the room, cheeks red with rage. “Your nephew has treated my godson most abominably and I insist he come up to scratch!”

“Madam—”

“Do not ‘madam’ me!”

“iIktor will of course do everything that is honorable. Boy, why have you not proposed?”

Viktor throws up his hands in the air. “I am trying,” he says, hands on his hips in a put upon fashion, “but it is difficult to offer Yuuri my hand when you persist on interrupting me. I shall never become so much as engaged if we are not afforded five minutes of privacy!”

“You were certainly alone with him much the last time you met! You could have asked him then!” Minako snaps.

Viktor blushes. “I did not want him to think that I was not serious,” he admits, “and I thought that it was all settled between us—”

“You thought what?” Yuuri asks.

“I have been courting you for months!”

“You have?”

“…yes?”

Yuuri tries to make sense of this bizarre declaration, and weighs against the season’s events. Viktor has been very constantly with him, and certainly has been very complimentary, and he has behaved very oddly whenever anyone else compliments Yuuri—Yuuri has been interpreting this as brotherly concern—and at the ball, he spoke of wanting a third set, and asked to call on him as if there was something further to discuss, and what had he said? _I suppose it does not matter._ As if he assumed that Yuuri would be in his bed in the future regardless.

“You….have been courting me. And want to marry me.”

“You did not know?”

“But I haven’t a—a dowry or a title or—”

“Darling, if you do not think my income is sufficient for the both of us, you will have to marry royalty,” Viktor says dryly.

“I thought you just liked to talk to me!”

“I like it so well that I intend to secure all your future conversation for myself.”

“What happened to your face?”

“I was attacked by footpads.”

“Dressed like that?” Yuuri is too relieved for tact; Viktor has more than once implied that he was kept in Russia for so many years because he had enemies that kept him from leaving.

“That is a harsh comment indeed from you, when you wear lilac!”

“What is wrong with lilac?” Yuuri finds it to be a restful color.

“It makes you look bilious.”

“If I look bilious, why do you want to marry me?”

Viktor sighs, takes both Yuuri’s ungloved hands, and snatches him up to kiss him.

“That is not an answer.”

“There are no words in any language sufficient to describe the depth of my regard for you. I am entirely dependent on you, entirely at your disposal, entirely in your power—please, Yuuri.”

There is a slam as the parlor door slams shut and Lady Lilia and Minako make themselves scarce.

“Yes,” Yuuri says, finally, when nothing more eloquent comes to mind. “Yes, I…if you mean it.”

When they are married, Yuuri thinks as Viktor seizes him again and knocks off his hat with the violence of his affections, he will really have to insist that Viktor not kiss him so often where they might be observed.

(When they are married, Yuuri will have to ask Viktor a great many things. About Russia, and his family. About his life, and his love. About everything about him Yuuri does not know. He thinks he will have the courage now.)

**Author's Note:**

> everyone go congratulate spooky on not dying during finals


End file.
